


These Days

by marîmnegeth (keio)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Fingering, Love Letters, M/M, after BotFA, diary writing, glimpses of Shire life, kink meme fill, life continues for Bilbo Baggins, memory and memoir, writing as therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-27 02:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keio/pseuds/mar%C3%AEmnegeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Bilbo is a writer and a reader. I want to read a fic where this is front-and-centre.</p><p>When Bilbo left the Shire, he was more reader than writer. When he returned, he couldn't stop writing. All his entries seem to be dedicated to a persona he rarely names, and he pours all his thoughts and narratives of his days to letters that would never be read. A moving-on story, centered on Bilbo and the events after BotFA</p><p>(rating will be apparent as chapters update)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Last Day of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> — with thanks and a prawn salad to [Clocks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Clocks/pseuds/Clocks) & [spicedpiano](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedpiano/pseuds/spicedpiano), who beta'd this. Thank you for putting up with this!

_There is so much Everything_  
 _that Nothing is hidden quite nicely._  
  
(from “Reality Demands”, Wislawa Szymborska)

 

**1: THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER**

Bilbo Baggins never forgot a story told. That was not to say he was in any way associated with the gossipmongers at the market and at the flower stalls, with nothing better to do than to make up nonsense out of even more incredulous nonsense. He did not care a whit what Percy Periwinkle and his strange city-Hobbit companion wore to the faire in summer, nor did the drastic haircut Medallia Proudfoot saw fit to wear bother him the least.

 

The stories Bilbo Baggins took with him were stories told in great halls he had never actually been in. There were Elves there, and Big People, roaring and raving and going on quests. There were all sorts of strange and wonderful things that did not of course exist in the Shire, but that Bilbo conjured up in his mind instead, as he spent hours upon hours out in the midmorning sun climbing trees, exploring borders, discovering muddy rabbit holes. A typical Took boy, if there was any, maybe only slightly Tookier than his kin. 

 

He fought a smirk as he regarded the vaguely Hobbit-shaped assortment of twigs and mud before him. 

 

“Not a page until you run a bath, and scrub yourself pink.” 

 

“But I—“

 

“I had thought it was a bog monster come at my door and sit for supper.” 

 

“No, see—“

“To the baths.” 

 

Blue eyes twinkled  at him, disconcertingly familiar, and, as it was wont to happen more often these days, Bilbo thought he was looking at a younger version of himself. Surely the Took in small Frodo had been tempered by the more sensible Baggins side of his family? Or perhaps it was the Brandybuck in him, quick-thinking and not a little sly, though the boy would not have known it. 

 

_Your nephews' tracks are still apparent on the floor, if you must know. I am still waiting for remuneration._

 

Twigs trailed Frodo to the backroom baths, and Bilbo only shook his head and smiled. Of _course_ they boy would crest the Hill, venture to the outskirts of Overhill (he would have a word with the boy, it was rush snake season in the light woods), where the best trees for climbing swayed. 

 

_There, hidden in the branches of trees already ancient when the first Thain of the Shire opened his eyes to the world, Nattlebrook the Nimble hid, daring no breath, no movement, until after the entire Elven entourage had passed underbranch. For there were scores of them; in shimmering velvet hoods, in scintillating traveling cloaks, astride mounts with manes like spun silver._

 

Of course there would be nothing but rolling hills and Hobbit holes as far as the eye could see, even when one was perched on the Overhill's tallest tree, but that was hardly an impediment to a young Hobbit lad's imagination. 

 

The splashing of water and a high-pitched voice singing summer songs could be heard faintly from behind the door. Sweeping Frodo's trail clean, Bilbo made for his study, allowing himself perhaps a good hour or so before the boy would finally wind down and, bleary-eyed, be ready for bed, ready for his story. There would be time enough for Bilbo to tell _his_ story first.

 

A storyteller's time was never his own. Not even after years and years of waiting. 

 

From amongst the parchments and Correspondences Of The Utmost Importance scattered about his desk, beneath the hefty leather-bound tome with maps and strange words on them, Bilbo extricated a simple grey-bound book. No markings adorned its cover, and when he opened it to the page he had last been in, there were no captivating drawings in ink to accompany what was written. 

 

_Just as I thought, this would be good for three seasons. Soon, as autumn comes along, I shall have to acquire a fresh journal._

 

There were others like it, from countless summers and autumns past— _had it been already been past twenty years!—_ discreet in their keeping, hidden in the many chests he kept around the house. This would be one of many. 

 

“By Old Took's foot,” he mused, the reality of all the years passed sinking into him heavily like so much sand _._ The ghost of all the Bilbos who had sat on this chair all those forty years, faithfully putting quill to paper seemed to brush him lightly, so that he shivered, even if it was only a passing breeze. 

 

_But I shan't keep you waiting_ , he thought. _My own. I have much to tell you about the metalcraft the Bree folk brought with them for Trading Day. The entire Shire approved. No doubt you, with your skill, would have been thoroughly offended at the careless make of even their 'finest' blades._

 

Bilbo never forgot a story told, as not all stories are revealed in words. Words are only necessary to piece together fragments of what had been lost, and even then, they change as they are written. 

 

There are stories of an impossible affection, the strain it would bring, and the triumph, from a single brush of a hand against hair. There is a story in a king's eyes when they search you quietly, and you can hear the same in the _thud-thud-thudding_ of his proud heart against your ear, as he presses you flush against him. 

 

Bilbo set down his quill, squeezed his right hand into a fist and slowly opened it, so that the little crescents of his nails marked his palm. 

 

_The gentians are a riotous blue in the backgarden, but they are of a deeper and far more brilliant variation than they were last season. Strange. So deep, in fact, that in the twilight they seem to glow._

 

A whimsical thought occurred to Bilbo, and he chuckled softly to himself even as he wrote it down. 

 

_Perhaps they glow blue because the Sackville-Bagginses have come by so very often. Worse than orcs, and far more consistent. You are lucky to be removed of their attentions._

 

Yet even as he wrote it, the words changed: instead of the casual jibe it was meant to be, it also said: _you are not with me_ and _my kin cannot be yours_. 

 

“Uncle?”

 

The boy crept up to his elbow so stealthily, Bilbo had not noticed. _The little burglar_ , he thought, though the voice that said it in his head was not his own. Frodo had dressed himself for bed, scrubbed clean of the day's grime.

 

“Well what is this! I had taken you for a small hobgoblin, crashing the baths. You actually now do resemble a certain nephe—” 

 

“Uncleeee,” Frodo whined, grinning, recognizing the tease. He clung to his uncle's sleeve tightly, pulling him up from the chair. “I wan' hear about the Elves!” 

 

“Goodness gracious Frodo, we had the Elves yesterday!” Feigning grumpiness, Bilbo nevertheless allowed himself to be tugged away from his desk. 

 

The smaller Hobbit pinched his face in annoyance. “I had forgotten. How their ships looked like. Right down to their dresses, I had it. I could even tell where West was—“ and he licked his finger and held it out as if to feel the wind— “but I'd forgotten the ships, and the songs they sing! I had it all set up proper!” 

 

“Properly.”

 

“Properly.” He deflated. “They disappeared by the Bridgefields, before they could get to the water.” The boy looked cross with himself.

 

_So he_ had _been on the treetops imagining Nat the Nimble_. Bilbo tucked the boy in as Frodo clambered onto his bed, and with a long-suffering sigh, lit a fresh candle to let stand by the bedside table. Oh, this boy's heart had wings, Bilbo felt, and he prayed dearly that Frodo should never find occasion to clip them, as he himself once did. 

 

_And if he does,_ Bilbo thought quietly, _may a stranger with a quest find this door one fine evening, as you did, and take him away to live his own tale._

 

Big blue eyes blinked at him owlishly in the semi-dark. From the half-opened windows, a light breeze slipped in, quiet as a thief, rustling the pages of his journal and the curls on his head. When briefly Bilbo closed his eyes, he thought he could hear, instead of the wind-sweet elven melody he was prepared to speak of, the deeper, timorous humming of an unexpected dinner guest smoking by his fireplace. 

“The ships then,” he began, and Frodo curled into the bedclothes eagerly. “The ships they sail for home. Why, of course we must begin again with home.”


	2. Spring Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> where Bilbo spends a wet day in Michel Delving.

The mithril coat glimmered where it hung in the pale gloom of the Mathom-house, as a cluster of droplets arranged on a wet, black bough. Whenever he found business to do in Michel Delving, he never trekked home without a visit to his admittedly most precious treasure. He was careful to see it every so often, but visiting without a pattern, so that the gossipmongers would pin it on this odd bachelor's bouts of nostalgia.  

 

This year was a particularly cool winter, and the transition to spring brought with it even cooler showers. It was a little too dim for Bilbo to take out his journal and write, so he settled for arranging his correspondence (it was always good form to reply on time) in his head for the moment. Taking a seat on the bench, he proceeded to stare off blankly out the window, fingers drumming against his knee.

 

_No, I don't suppose you would have approved a gentle suggestion to cut out a ceiling-hole in your main hall―nothing too big, mind, the size of the Green Dragon around would suffice―to let the sunlight in. Therefore, you will have to contend with the initial suggestion of cutting out my quarters facing north, as it should be able to take in both the sunrise and the sunset._

 

Bilbo paused his drumming, frowned. If it had been facing north, however, he would be expecting the harsh winter winds to call every morning for at least four months until spring warmed the mountain. He found his throat and nose to be particularly sensitive to the cold. 

 

_South_ , he corrected in his head, _as I believe the Long Lake will look lovely on a cloudless day._

 

He had never actually seen the mountain cloudless, but then he supposed it was simply the season he had come visiting; after all, summer had passed when they'd arrived at the foothills of the Lonely Mountain, and he understood the colder seasons were quicker to pass in the north. Likewise, he had never seen a view of the Long Lake from the mountain itself, but what was that to a bit of imagination?

 

Nevertheless Bilbo had decided it should look like Brandywine River, except longer and with considerably more trout. 

 

The custodian's daughter came out from the back room, humming a light tune. When she saw who had come so early, she started, but nodded and gave him a small smile. Bilbo returned the gesture, used by now to the younger Hobbits' stares of mixed wonder and wariness. After a few long minutes of her shuffling about awkwardly in the room pretending to clean, she finally gathered the courage to approach him. 

 

“Begging your pardon Mister Baggins, sir,” she said politely, in a voice almost like a squeak, “but it must have been a very big fair.” 

 

He turned to look at her, face a blank. “I'm sorry, what... what fair?” 

 

She cocked her head lightly to the side, leaning on the long handle of her broom. “Why, the fair you bought your lovely coat from, of course!” She cast an admiring look at the mithril coat hanging limp in its prop. It was clear from her expression that she had long been fascinated by it. “Uncle says the metal work is very fine indeed, better than any lace-weaver west of Bree, in metal harder than their smiths can make.”

 

“Er, yes―“

 

“Really?” The lass's eyes brightened. “Was it a fair bigger than ours? Were there Big People? Were there elves? Were there dwarf-kind? I have always wanted to go to a Big People fair. But I must say, Mister Baggins, that for a shirt that calls itself a 'coat', it does not look, nor feel too warm at all!” 

 

He could almost hear the irritated snort at the mention of elves before dwarves, and his face cracked to a small smile. “Why... why yes of course, I suppose it was 'big'. Though it wasn't exactly a fair.” 

 

She looked crestfallen. _No doubt expected stories of toys and boys and sweet cakes and Big People_. 

On a regular day, such curiosity would have been enough to put Bilbo off, and had it been a regular day, he would have curtly dismissed the young girl, and leave with a note to her father about respectful silence in a museum. 

 

But today, he thought that light words brightened dispositions where real sunlight could not. He had thought of waiting out the rain before the walk back to Hobbiton, and in any case, the little lass looked more a listener than a gossipmonger. 

 

“There is a kind of cold Hobbits are not accustomed to, that sinks deep into your bones,” he began, “that finds you in your cot even in the warmest mornings. It starts with a whisper against your cheek―“ he cut a finger across his left cheekbone, “―and seeps into your nape, leaves a tingling in your hands, and settles in your belly like... like old and curdling milk.” 

 

The custodian's daughter made a face and shivered. “Like jackfrost in Northframe?” she suggested. 

 

“Not quite,” Bilbo said, “that's a different kind of cold. This one is the same kind of cold that accompanies odious folk and pickpockets, and it is the kind of cold that whispers terrible things in your sleep. _'You will be harmed greviously'_ for instance, while you are fetching water in a stream, back exposed to the woods.” 

 

_Keep your eyes alert, I should not be advising you about methods of stealth, when you are our company's burglar._

 

_There are fouler things afoot watching, and the quicker watcher is often the luckier watcher._

 

Bilbo remembered everything that that cold whispered to him, and he remembered how it unnerved him and made him jumpy in the first few weeks of their travel. It had even taken on the brash, low voice of their leader. 

 

In time, however, those whispers became a constant companion, and the voice had become more protective than admonishing. For that is how a dwarf prince removed from warmth learned to love: a fierce desire to protect and preserve, given to shielding ( _indeed_ , thought Bilbo) than coddling. Bilbo did not understand that, not until Thorin picked for him the mithril coat from all the hoard of Smaug. 

 

“I will feel safer thinking you wear it,” the prince-now-king said softly, and at that moment two things occurred to Bilbo simultaneously: that majestic and powerful Thorin should align his own safety to that of a humble little not-burglar from the Shire flustered him completely, yet set something _right_ in his gut that had been disjointed as of late. 

 

The second one was slower and more permanently took root: that there will be a time when Thorin and he would not share the same space, the same city, the same slice of Middle-Earth. 

 

It was the truth, but it was a cold and hard truth. 

 

Two smaller boys had emerged from somewhere while he was speaking, and had taken their places beside the girl. The lass shuddered again, but her interest in the story waned little. “And this coat protects you from such a cold, Mister Baggins?” She glanced back at the shimmering mail undershirt. “Where does this sort of cold occur, anyway?” 

 

“In adventures!” 

 

She raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Adventures? But those are unseemly things, my mother says.” 

 

Bilbo suddenly felt very tired. He eyed her sharply. “Now you are a good lass from a good family, I trust you will not go about looking for this kind of cold. It is a vexing thing.” He rubbed his shoulder, as if he could find warmth there. "A very vexing thing." 

 

It was past luncheon hour when Bilbo walked the rain-softened path out of the Mathom-house. The sun  barely squeaked through the still dense cloud cover, and another downpour threatened the rest of the afternoon. He found himself wondering if his pygmy cherry trees agreed to such a cold and wet thaw so late in the spring.

 

“They will be flowering soon,” he muttered to himself. “Rain will not be a kind weight to their fragile blossoms.” 

 

\--------------

 

When he finally found the time that evening to sit and put his letter to quill and ink, it spanned nearly five full pages back-on-back. There was an indignant argument for the possibility of fashioning a system of inner gardens using drip irrigation ( _I distinctly recall Balin mentioning several deep mountain springs that feed the Esgaroth.)_ , some drawings of suggested 'mithril coat layers for formal attire', and a pressed cherry blossom. 

 

Some soil from the hill cover overhead had been heavy with water and eroded a bit, causing a slight leak over one part of the receiving room. Bilbo pushed a bucket under the drip absently, reminding himself to check with Hamfast for repairs in the morning. He sat back on his desk. 

 

His candle burned steadily in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> — Despite being a stranger Hobbit than when he'd left the Shire, I imagine Bilbo to still be of very high repute, especially with the authorities (and possibly distant relations) who value his insight with regards to the rather meagre foreign policy they have with traders. 
> 
> — I imagine Hobbiton itself to experience mild winters, only very uncommonly snowing when the northern drafts are particularly cold. The northern fringes of the Shire though, would have a dusting of frost on them in the colder months.


	3. Winter Noon (the day that went unwritten)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wherein goose down becomes significant to Bilbo, and he ruins three blank pages.

_I find the little game grandaunt Lily Baggins-Goodbody introduced to us young ones to be helpful in remembering certain details about this troop. The mechanics of the game are as follows: in a company of two or more, the game master says a random word (“locust” or “soap” or “beeswax”) and the rest reply with the first word they associate with it (“crop”, “crud”, “Grandmother”)._

 

_Thus, as follows (and to be modified later on):_

_Dwalin- skull, cracker, headstands, a strong left hook, sour ale (after that unfortunate incident in Bree);_

_Balin- advisor, blue cheese (an ENTIRE block, for shame), contract, witness, Headmaster Poppy, first watch_

 

“What are you writing?” 

 

The bulk Thorin Oakenshield wore about with him disguised his approach from the trees, and the voice that was low and demanding jolted poor Bilbo from his musings. He dropped his quill across his lap, leaving a shiny thin line of ink against his trousers. He instinctively curled into his parchment. 

 

“I―what?” Most days it was difficult to glean whether the exiled prince was issuing an order, a complaint (which was actually an oblique order), or a statement, but Bilbo was quick to adapt. But wasn't Thorin asking why he was sitting on this little patch of earth while most of the company were on their feet minding their own business? Bilbo glanced at the Company members behind them bustling to erect camp for the night, most of them on their feet, except for Óin, who was carefully applying some sort of fluid in his ear, head tipped to the side.

 _He is asking why I am idling_ , Bilbo decided. 

 

“W-well dinner is right on the way, and, erm, Bombur distinctly told me he would carry on with the stew, and that it was alright to stretch out a bit, as Gloin and I had started the fire. I believe he is now with Nori to the north past the pine covers investigating some quail tracks. We took extra care to save some kindling for later, he said it may get even colder after sundown.”  _And I am trying to salvage some natural light for writing_ , he added to himself a little crossly.  _If you would please._

 

The dwarf prince's expression did not change. “You did not answer the question.” 

 

Bilbo blinked. But he did, didn't he? “I beg your pardon?” 

 

Thorin's jaw twitched slightly. “I did not ask 'why', burglar, I asked 'what'.” 

 

Well this not-yet-a-king was entitled, wasn't he? Proper gentlefolk would not enquire not-burglars writing alone at the edge of camp about the _content_ of their activity? If they did, they would include a healthy amount of apologies before actually asking. He would have very kindly even shown it to him, if he had been asked nicely. Bilbo puffed up, affronted. 

 

_He has been long removed from courtly graces, as is clear._

 

“Words,” he answered curtly, his chin drawing up to a near-pout. 

 

“Indeed,” Thorin replied coolly, circling slowly, crunching dried leaves underfoot. The penetrating stare was rather unnerving, and while Tooks were willful and rather untamed, the meeker Baggins in him voted to just give the dwarf what he wanted to be done with it. Besides, his neck was niggling from looking up at Thorin at so close a distance.

 

“There are― there are many things of interest, so far in our journey, and I thought...I thought perhaps it easier to elaborate upon, later, if I took field notes.” 

 

_When I get back home._ Whether or not Bilbo said it aloud, didn't matter. If Thorin should scoff him for being bookish, well, he would throw Ori right back at him in retort. 

 

A preparation done in vain, as a thoughtful look crossed Thorin's face instead, and he squinted his eyes against the dying sun. Very shortly he said, “Two accounts will certainly paint a wider picture, and nuances of this quest must be passed on.” 

 

Thorin looked down at Bilbo, who thought the light was tricking him again to seeing a small smile crease across the dwarf prince's face. “Narratives in Common will enrich the archives. The library must needs be restored.” 

 

That said, he nodded brusquely, and turned back to the camp. 

 

The exchange perplexed him immensely, and he would not have been more confused had it started to rain goose down. What library, and what would it have anything to do with his personal musings? And 'narratives in Common?' Was the prince woolgathering and talking out loud? Bilbo ducked his head, grumbling, blew on his fingers to warm them from the rapidly dropping temperature, and picked up quill again. 

 

If he wasn't so very Baggins about it, he would have recognized the presumption as it was made, and would have made room for some Took cheek. 

 

That evening, Ori courteously asked to sit beside him, and engaged him in animated conversation about the kind of furniture and furnishings found in a typical Hobbit hole. Bilbo, always willing to oblige curiosities of an academic sort, ended up describing in detail most of Bag End's beloved furniture, while the younger dwarf listened aptly and scratched ink on paper. 

 

Before they retired at last, Ori thanked him profusely and proceeded to the direction of his bedroll, but turned around to say something in departure. 

 

“I have a sizeable ream on hand, Master Bilbo sir, should you find yourself lacking. I mean," the younger dwarf scratched his head shyly, "I know you've taken to writing when you can, so I commiserate entirely. A-and much ink to spare as well. Leave no detail unchecked! The library will be richer for it.” 

 

_There it was again._ Bilbo let it go, too drowsy to care. “Yes of course, Ori, and thank you,” he had replied, stifling a yawn. “Good night!” 

 

• • • • •

In the morning, Thorin passed him again, as he returned from the nearby river with an armful of cleaned bowls. 

 

“There _will_ be armchairs,” Thorin had announced with a steel countenance, as if it were a decision he had spent all night mulling over. No, not a decision, Thorin made it sound like a threat. There **will** be armchairs, or else.

 

“Of-of course,” Bilbo replied uncertainly after a confused pause. _Armchairs?_

 

“Goose down.” Eyes that bore deep into his own seemed to dare a negative response.

 

“...un. Understood.” He hoped the small pile of bowls he was carrying hid his incredulity.  Was this some sort of riddle? Some strange dwarven code? What in Old Took's toenail did he agree to?

 

Thorin peered at him closely for a while, before grunting in pleased satisfaction and stalking off to where his nephews were putting out the fire. Ori emerged from behind a tree, winding travel rope, but looked Bilbo's way and nodded enthusiastically. He returned the gesture with a tilt of his head, still rather confused.

 

_Goose down_ , thought Bilbo, shaking his head at the absurdity of everything. He hoped Fili and Kili did not inherit their uncle's oddity. 

• • • • •

 

Bilbo may have forgotten the details of certain stories, but that could hardly be his fault when there were simply other details that branded themselves to his memory more forcefully than the others, blocking out everything else. Skin, and sweat, an aquiline nose rubbing against his cheekbone, the iron strength of a smith's fingers pressing into his arse. 

 

_Goose down_ , he had thought absurdly, as his fingers curled into the hair on the prince's chest, the only thought that squeezed its way out of the encompassing burning wreck of his body and mind. Elsewhere the prince was more wiry than downy, but the contrast made for achingly beautiful friction, when he'd dragged himself like a cat flush against Thorin, almost as soon as that finger pressed hard against _something_ he never even knew existed. 

 

He thought he would die. He thought, _Surely my heart will burst_ and _the bellows are broken._ He thought about the elaborated bodily harm clause in the contract, wondered if _this_ was covered. 

 

He wished there were words to describe being pressed down hard with his knees up around his head, the rhythm that drummed in his blood, the sensation of feeling his bones melt like so much silver in a forge. _Full_ did not quite describe being literally split open, legs splayed wide as far as they could go, so that the day after, mild effort sent his inner thighs trembling. _Unmerciful_ did not come near the way Thorin would pull himself out, leaving only a small bit of his length within, so that Bilbo instinctively squeezed, attempting to clutch what had been pulled from him; and at that point Thorin would choose to bore his way in again, a poker, a brand, scraping and stretching as he entered, burrowing into Bilbo, burrowing home. Again, and again, and again.

 

In the end, there had been a single, ugly blotch of ink in the upper half of the empty page, where he had unconsciously dug the inked tip of his quill, as he was lost to daydream. The ink stained through three pages, and Bilbo frowned. His palms were sweaty, his mouth dry, and a strange, delicious ache crept up his spine. 

 

_I have been sitting stiff for too long,_ he decided, as he stood up and stretched. Perhaps a light luncheon and the armchair would sort him out. There would be proper words later. 

 

In the end, there was only the solid circle of ink as wide as the pads of two fingers combined.


	4. Fall Evening (Yellow)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time before harvest is the most colourful time. Bilbo and the memories glowing with a low, golden light.

_Your absence has gone through me_  
 _Like thread through a needle.  
_ _Everything I do is stitched in its colour._

 _(_ from WS Mervin, "Separation")

 

* * *

 

“Who is 'My Own?'”

Bilbo didn't hear it until Frodo, leaning against the doorframe, repeated his question. He opened one eye and puffed on his pipe.

“Finish your sentence like a properly educated lad, you are not from Hardbottle.”

Frodo ducked his head to hide a smile. “You keep writing to them.”

Bilbo froze, the light and airy haze he was blissfully immersed in dissipating in the cold twilight air. Slowly, he turned to Frodo, irritation and dread warring for equal expression in his face, until he decided to go with irritation. Was the boy digging through his things? Was this nosy little rascal simply―

“I fetched some bottles of apple cider from the cellar like you requested,” Frodo hurriedly explained, only a little bit unnerved at the promise of an admonishing shining in his uncle's eyes, “f-for the mayor. A-and there was a yellow leather book opened a third of a way on the floor. I thought of course it was yours, and brought it up with me.”

 _So that was where I left it. Must be careful now, the boy is old enough to read advanced script_. “And you... read it, as if it were yours, as if it were some trifling storybook for children to―“

“It was wet, I had to dry it! In fact, it is drying out now.” He feebly pointed behind him towards the house. “I know your books and journals contain your adventures and they are dearer to you than anything, uncle. So I had to separate the pages lest they stick, and the writing run together. Fortunately the writing is still intact.” Big blue eyes blinked at him from beneath dark curls, afraid and in some way awaiting his approval. “I know you doubt me, but it's true.”

_I would have doubted me, too._

The anger that was simmering inside of Bilbo vanished. Who was he to fault the boy for being curious, was he not thrice the menace in his younger years? Thank the heavens the Took inquisitiveness was watered down in Frodo. He would just have to be careful where he did his writing next time.

There was silence for a long while, in which Frodo correctly assumed his impertinence pardoned. Quietly, he turned over an empty garden pot beside his uncle's bench, and sat upon it. Both Bagginses looked out at the early autumn of Hobbiton.

“Your grand-aunt Belladonna,” Bilbo said softly, “went on many adventures. It often did not sit well with your grand-uncle Bungo, bless their souls, as he made wonderful pot roast, a third of which would be left cold, or uneaten. 'Adventures always make you late for dinner,' he would tell me crossly.”

Bilbo paused to refill his pipe, and the smell of weed was sweet in the air. “Oh but she would bring back food, mother did, meatpies from the fringes of the Gate itself, moonshine from old Banks from Michel Delving, mushrooms from forests further south! Even some wonderful bread she claimed was Elvish! There were many things she would have wanted to bring home, but couldn't.”

“Instead she wrote to you of them.”

The boy was indeed woven from the same inquisitive Baggins yarn. “Yes, yes, she wrote. Short pages in hasty writing and hastier drawings, mind, your grand-aunt had terrible patience. But it was enough for me.”

A brilliant smile from Frodo, who understood what imagination did for a few colourful words that hinted at entirely new worlds. Then he ventured cautiously, “Are... are those letters to someone beyond the Shire?”

 _Beyond this earth,_ Bilbo wanted to say, but bit the answer back.

Below Bag End's hill, the lights of evening flickered against the Bywater. There was the smell of cooking apples; the Gamgee family most like, whose boy Bilbo had given a fifth of their share to. A good boy, Samwise, about Frodo's age; Bilbo thought he would make a good companion for his little nephew.

“Will they come to visit?”

The question was soft and curious, and all the more painful for it, Bilbo felt. It made something seize up in him, leaving his tongue heavy in his mouth, and his words choked in his gullet. His silence answered the boy's question it seemed, because Frodo only glanced at his uncle, young eyes wide but touched with the sadness of those who had seen the ones they love pass on, the sadness of those who remained.

“The harvest came in today,” Frodo said softly, pulling his uncle out of the pool of sorrow that had begun to pull him under, “and East Farthing is in quite a state. Farmer Maggot says these are the biggest pumpkins he's ever seen grow at the end of the season, since his great-great-grandfather snuck a pot of Tom Bombadil's growing powder from the pantry! Provided that story has any truth, of course. His wife made us all cold pumpkin mush.

“You tell that to them,” the younger Hobbit turned to Bilbo with the most blinding smile, and it occurred to him then that maybe, it did not need to be so impossible. “You tell them about harvest time, and our Yule roast, and Old Gaffer's brew, finest in Hobbiton. You tell him where you get your pipeweed. They'll come. No Hobbit can resist our flavour of Old Toby.”

 _Neither can a dwarf,_ Bilbo thought, and felt a chuckle climb up his throat.

That evening, Bilbo quietly retrieved his missing journal from where Frodo had laid it out in the back room to dry. Thankfully, most of the wrinkled, drying pages remained unwritten, and the ink that ran where moisture touched it did not ruin the writing. He lit a candle after Frodo had gone to bed, dipped his quill, and began a new page.

Bilbo wrote at length about his nephew, and sympathised fully now that he was an uncle too, with a young one to be responsible for. He wrote of hobbit children pasttimes, the friends and cousins (some who were both) they were encouraged to make. He speculated about how Frodo would have turned out had he been raised among a different people.

(...albeit, quite thankfully bereft of sharp objects such as arrows, or throwing daggers, and Frodo was absolutely forbidden to ride ponies.)

 

 

• • • • •

 

One of Frodo's earliest chores upon moving into Bag-End was the retrieval of his uncle's mail. He understood how important his Uncle Bilbo was, so too he understood all the envelopes great and small that found their way into their tankard-shaped mailbox in the morning.

He loved picking up his uncle's mail. He loved the feel of all the different textures of paper and sealing wax, and the frayed twine that sometimes senders saw fit to bind their missives with. At first he would take the bundle of them―on some days, just three or four at most―and card through them without yet reading, and deposit them on his uncle's writing table. Later when he was older, and understood his uncle's disposition better, he would be merciful and discreetly set apart anything that came scrawled with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins's hand, at least, until after elevenses.

His uncles sent him to deliver missives too, and for places beyond Hobbiton, he deposited them in the mailing house near Waymoot. Oh his uncle wrote many letters. There were quick scribbles in hasty ink, rolled thin and tied with ribbon; bold and formal cursive for documents that needed his signage affixed; replies to invitations, invitations that waited for replies. And Bilbo Baggins was meticulous. For longer and more detailed responses, he wrote them down in shorthand, on rubbish parchment, before he set them in ink. He liked words, Uncle Bilbo; and as one who liked food, neither deprived nor wasted himself a letter.

In time, Frodo thought, he too would be important enough to write letters and sign his name on paper.

“And be quick about it,” Bilbo would say, “It is unbecoming and downright unmannered to reply to invitations late! Imagine the preparations that go to waste. Luncheon stew, left on the table, gone cold and uneaten! Tsk.”

He had never retrieved a letter from The Friend, as he had come to call the One his uncle wrote to. Not even the strange silver envelopes that were dropped by raven on the rare days they chanced on Bag-End came from The Friend. Neither were the scrolls in Elvish writing or the parcels written through with heavy Common.

If he had, Frodo thought, his uncle would have sent his replies.

Bilbo had been writing his replies for so long, they were as a book bound. None were sent out.

He was sitting on the rug that autumn evening doing his numbers (the headmaster had them read measuring sticks today, and memorizing long tables of figures, which crowded Frodo's mind like locusts), and Bilbo was on his armchair, reading. The embers burned low before Frodo completed his little exercise, and he stretched, yawning. He had reached out with the poker to stoke the logs, when his uncle stirred.

“No, you can't help yourself to the red jar that's _my_ stash of Old Toby.”

The sentence was clear, and prim, and rather cross. The little Hobbit froze for a second, thinking he was being reprimanded, until the second stretched longer, and gave way to confusion. Slowly, he poked at the fire again.

“I do mean it. You've demolished my pantry. Not Old Toby.”

Bilbo's eyes were closed, his head tilted to one side, book forgotten on the blanket over his lap. He had dozed off, and whatever dream he walked in seemed to threaten his precious pipe weed. Frodo glanced at the red jar atop a side shelf, as if to assure himself that it was still there. It was, stoppered and labeled, and happily stashed. Slowly he got to his feet, books and papers held to his chest.

“Your lot smoke like a chimney there is a child here Ineedawordwith you.”

The rest of it dissolved in bleary sleeptalk. Frodo wondered if he dreamt of elves, if elves smoked as Hobbits smoked (and he thought they didn't, as Elves loved trees, and, well, smoking meant burning weeds, and weeds were little trees, weren't they). He leaned in slightly, quietly, to catch what else Bilbo was mumbling about between light snoring, but these were less distinct, and he gave up. Frodo poked the fire one last time, sending a warm wave of heat outwards, adjusted the blanket on his uncle's lap with one hand, and turned to go.

Bag-End's shadows were wide, and clung to the doorarches and draped across the floor. It was a sizeable house, and more than big enough for them both, but at that moment, Frodo felt small; felt that they were indeed just two Little Folk living in a hole on a hill, in a village that the rest of the world forgot. There were some maps that had carelessly inked in 'The Shire' or 'Village of Small Folk' between the Marches and the Mountains of the Moon, as if it were no more than a negligible plot of grass.

Maybe someone had forgotten his uncle, had forgotten to write, all these years. Frodo frowned. What ill manners, that Friend had! Why, his uncle was certainly one of the most upright, if not a bit eccentric (but then he was also Took) figures in the whole of The Shire itself.

If Bilbo only requested, Frodo would have run to take the letter-books to The Friend himself (armed with better maps, he thought), run past the farthings, run until breath rattled in his lungs. He would.

 _Though_ , he thought _, I do not know the way._

 

• • • • •

 

Bilbo used to dislike harvest time. Not all of it, to be sure, as The Week of Plenty had little rituals he looked forward to the entire year. Like all young hobbits, he enjoyed the song and dance parts of it, when the lutes and the bagpipes and the musical tins came out of storage, and he certainly enjoyed the eating part of it as well, especially when Matriarch Adamanta finally emerged from the kitchens laden with her very own cranberry and nut pies. Those were impossible to resist, and Bilbo always thought about them wistfully when he trudged through the darker side-roads of his later life.

But the actual harvest itself was a chore that left one hungry and soiled, and simply took all the time one could have spent for play, to do something as tedious as baling hay. He'd tried to slip away with his cousins time and again, enough at least to remember how the Old Took's crop felt against the backs of his knees. An older hobbit, these days he did not meet his cousins for games in the long grass like they did, but over the wide mahogany table of Cousin Isengrim, to discuss the portioning of harvest.

Today, the barley reached above his waist, and he waded through the swaying stalks as he made his way home from a quick visit to Overhill. This particular patch of land was not as delightfully plateaued as the Took estates, but it rolled softly in the distance where the gentle crest of the hill met slope.

An idea occurred to him, and he smiled.

 _Oh you fool, I have won our bet after all,_ he thought, seeking out a place where he could scratch some words out on the last pages of his accounts book. He would have to carefully tear it from the spine later on (and wouldn't it be dreadfully embarrassing to have the bookkeeper see and read it), but it was important that he wrote it down.

There was a small patch of dry soil beneath a rags-and-straw scarecrow, and Bilbo waded over, intending to stop and write for a quick few minutes, before he would be on his way again. He pulled out a small stick of charcoal from his pants pocket, and began to write.

He could almost see the stubborn set of the dwarf prince's jaw as Bilbo knelt in the tall barley, and wrote down his response in nearly-illegible shorthand. It had been a bet of course.

_You are wrong, you old dwarf, claiming to have felt and worked all the kinds of gold in Middle-Earth. I have never doubted your skill, and in fact hold it in high regard; neither do I belittle the mountains of the same we beheld in Erebor (despite the steaming piles of dragon leavings, goodness, poor, poor Balin who has to oversee it)―_

Bilbo paused, tilted his head upward to the impossibly endless blue sky. The days were cooler now, and while Hobbiton was snugly secured in the part of the Shire that didn't see snow unless it was by some strange irregularity (unlike Northframe), the sun still bore down on them, warm and welcome. Around him, the tall barley blades danced with the slightest wind.

These would be harvested, and eventually become flour, which would eventually become breads and cakes; still some others would be carefully processed, and would serve the Green Dragon, or, like Gaffer, the secret moonshine some discreetly kept in stock. Bilbo himself fancied the odd refreshing flavor of barley tea, which he sipped cool in the summer as he wrote under the oak.

Cakes and bread meant a full pantry, a full pantry meant guests ( _who wrote first, mind you_ ) were always welcome. Taverns stocked with good brew meant evenings of song, and dance, and stories traded over the table―and sometimes, when you put a Brandybuck and a Took together, on the table as well. A warm prickling settled over his heart, making Bilbo acutely aware of the dull, almost imperceptible undercurrent of ache that ran strong beneath it.

 _You would have loved this_ , he continued, unaware of the smile that had started to split his face in two. _I don't believe you have tasted the Gaffer's First Tap. It's tradition to serve the first steinful to honoured guests._

For Bilbo Baggins had a hill full of gold too. Hills, if he counted his shares from the other harvesting grounds, but unlike the cold, lifeless gold of the Lonely Mountain, which only cast light when shone on, this gold moved of its own accord. This gold brought families together, and danced with the little ones to the lilt of harvest music. This gold grew again in abundance, year after year after year.

 _Not a mountain_ , he scribbled, smile widening, _for I am not a dwarf._

A thought came to him. Bilbo shook his head, paused, signed his entry. A chuckle bubbled up at the notion of proving to Thorin that there was gold more superior than Erebor's. The chuckle spilled over into laughter, and soon he was wiping tears from his eyes, though if these had come to be before or after his mirth, Bilbo could not tell.

_Bilbo son of Bungo of Bag-End. King Under the Hill._

What a fancy thing to sign correspondences with.

 

 

• • • • • • •

 

_...it was then that wargs came upon us, fur matted, mouth pulled back to reveal truly ferocious teeth. They are twice the size of the biggest Woodland wolf, and ten times as savage, almost with a sentience all their own. Their teeth! As sharp and long as dirks._

He was writing on his journal when the sounds of the Company in the main dining room petered out, and the dwarves retired to their own designated spaces in the house. Bilbo had excused himself early, eager to commit to paper everything that had happened since they had left Rivendell, and he cupped every memory gently in his mind, afraid to lose a single detail. What a story for his little nieces and nephews! Thankfully Beorn had rough, pulpy paper that he was happy to part with, and both he and Ori helped themselves with the sheets with relief.

In the low light of a hundred melting candles flickering sentinel-like in the room, Bilbo fingered the yellowing bruises on his clavicles gently. All impressions of teeth, crescent-shaped in some places, full and round like a stamp in some others. They did not look too bad, he decided, as he watched himself in the cracked glass of a window pane. All in all, not too different from the bruises he’d received on the way. That was what adventuring gave freely.

Some still smarted if he pressed too deeply, but where memory was concerned, pain was vivid. He could remember exactly how he had received each one. A quick shiver ran through him, not entirely caused by the cool forest air.

Beorn's house was quiet now, as quiet as a house full of skinchangers leaving and arriving as they pleased could be. Occasionally there would be a flutter of feathers, or padded feet in the underbrush outside. The rest of the dwarven company had certainly settled, mostly in their tunics, though their weapons, he knew, were smartly within arm's reach. Bilbo’s own letter-opener rested alongside the longer blade of the dwarf prince's, curved edges slotting comfortably.

Thorin could be quiet when he willed it, and without his steel boots, there was only the creak of the wooden floor underfoot before thick arms wrapped him against a bare chest from behind.

“It is fortunate that this Hobbit wears high collars.”

“And not my fortune that _this_ dwarf has impossibly sharp teeth,” Bilbo tried to grumble, except for the small sigh that chased his words. “I _do_ suffer quite a bit, if you must know, being unable as such to unbutton my collar whilst walking in high heat. Uncomfortable.”

A gently aquiline nose dragged against the side of his neck, inhaling his scent, and Thorin only murmured lowly in reply. It was almost impossible to reconcile such a gruff and unyielding prince with the gentle, almost reverent way he was being handled now. Bilbo bit back a whimper as he watched a hand disappear under his thin shirt, two fingers pinning a nipple between them and tugging.

The candles burned low as night dragged itself across the sky. The smell of burning wax was sharp on the inhale, so that Bilbo had to breathe through his mouth, opening his lips wetly to air. It was as if being plugged full, and so slowly by something that felt so immense and permanent ( _He is a mountain_ , his mind supplied wildly) threatened to push everything Bilbo had known about himself out, out― replacing everything with a heartbeat thumping that sounded suspiciously like _Thorinthorinthorin_ if he listened too closely.

He pushed back hard, seating himself full on the prince's lap, and Thorin rumbled lowly, like he had been gutted. Well Bilbo Baggins could be greedy when he chose to be, and this stolid, stormy dwarf prince clutching him like he would vanish in the thin yellow light of the cabin was just as much _his_ as the he himself was the prince’s.

Perhaps he understood a fraction of the insurmountable obsession of dwarves once they had knew where their life was tied to. For Thorin, it was a throne, Bilbo understood. For Bilbo... well. Seated against a powerful chest, his legs splayed wide on either side of Thorin’s, arms reaching behind him to anchor on tousled hair, it was difficult not to think that this was his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> — most of these scenes are meant to be with image accompaniment. The barley scene in particular is from a drawing I did of Bilbo in a field of barley.

**Author's Note:**

> — All characters not owned by me. Some parts have not been touched by Beta's brush, so mistakes are my own. This pair gives me all sorts of ridiculous feelings that need sorting out.
> 
> — Not quite letters; I went with journal writing, and how some folk (famously Anne Frank) use a "Dear Kitty" format to narrate their day to an imagined person. Hope this is OK for OP!


End file.
